Ochlophobia
by Caera1996
Summary: Being a genius doesn't mean things are always easy. McCoy helps.


There weren't many things that made Pavel Andreievich Chekov feel inadequate. His intelligence assured that he could speak and hold his own in a debate on nearly any subject, his ability to think ahead and calculate possible outcomes rapidly enhanced his skill as a tactician, and the fact that his dear Ma and Papa raised him to respect others and to care for those who needed help made him a good person.

The things about him that some people would see as detriments – his youth, for example, or his communication-limiting accent – were not issues as far as he was concerned. He'd learned quickly that the young were often overlooked, and an accent can be thickened or scaled back to suite the perception of situation, and didn't hinder his ability to articulate his position, as many were mistakenly wont to believe. He wasn't a tactical officer for nothing, after all.

None of that though, was useful in the current situation. As a matter of fact, he was berating himself for the fact that his brilliant tactical mind should've known better and come up with a way to avoid this. Now, standing within the large hall, people just _everywhere, _and conversation mingled with music seeming so much louder than he was sure it really was, none of the things that made Pavel comfortable with himself were enough to pull him away from the wall and plunge into this particular social situation. He knew he was going to have to do something soon, though. One could only hide by examining a painting for so long. As soon as he could get a grip on himself…as soon as he was able to breathe properly and get over this absolutely ridiculous and totally unexpected paralyzing desire to just disappear…he was leaving. He would put his tactical ability to use making good excuses for himself when the Captain realizes one of his Bridge crew is missing from the festivities.

* * *

Leonard McCoy was scowling. That, in and of itself, wasn't particularly surprising, or even noteworthy. Bones was always scowling. But this particular scowl seemed to be one with intent, and was directed across the room. Curious, Jim excused himself from the conversation and made his way over to his friend.

"What's up?" Jim asked, gently bumping his shoulder into the doctor's. McCoy glanced over at Jim, and then nodded in the direction of his focus.

"Kid's been staring at that painting for ten minutes," Bones replied. Jim watched Chekov standing stock-still for a few seconds before sighing.

"You or me?" Jim asked. Bones scowled some more, and glanced around the room. He rolled his eyes as he took in the attention they were receiving, and it certainly wasn't because of _him_. Jim, on the other hand, drew people to him like he had the gravity of a star.

"Me," he said. "We can't deprive your fans of your presence." Jim made a face.

"Please. If I never have to shake another hand or make nice with someone because of their title, it'll be too soon."

McCoy smirked at Jim. "Better get used to it. That's pretty much all you captains do. That and run the medical officers ragged."

Jim shrugged and slapped McCoy on the shoulder. "Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep you from losing your touch! Let me know if anything is up, will ya?" McCoy nodded and waved him off, already walking away.

* * *

"Discover the meaning of life yet?"

Pavel started slightly at the dry question, tinged with a telltale southern American accent. He'd been so wrapped up in his own misery he hadn't even noticed McCoy's approach. Of all the people here, why did it have to be the doctor? Shifting slightly, he found he was at a loss for any type of witty comeback and settled for simply shaking his head.

"You okay?"

"I am fine," Chekov answered curtly. Beside him, the doctor grunted. McCoy didn't have a tricorder handy at the moment, but it didn't take fancy medical equipment to see beads of perspiration on the kid's forehead, despite the slightly cooler temperature of the room. Up close, McCoy could also see the tension in the way Chekov was holding himself, and that he was slightly paler than what was normal for him. Also, he hadn't looked at McCoy, or away from the painting, at all. Then, through the eyes of an individual who had also completed a residency in psychology…because someone had to keep everyone sane during their five years rattling around in a tin can through a vacuum…he took another look. After watching Chekov contemplate that damn picture for a couple more seconds, he sighed and crossed his arms.

"I hate these damn things," McCoy said. "Nothin' but a bunch of paper pushers entirely too pleased with themselves. I'm a doctor, dammit, not Starfleet diplomat. I got better things to do with my time. Let's get out of here." Chekov made a strangled sound of assent, but no move to actually leave. "You do want to get out of here, right?"

Chekov swallowed and took a breath. "Y-yes. Very much. But I-I cannot." He flushed with embarrassment. "I cannot explain. I do not know what is wrong with me. Maybe I am crazy."

"Chekov," McCoy said. Then, softer, "Pavel. Listen to me. You're not crazy. Socializing can be…hard, and sometimes reactions are out of proportion." _We're not making any progress here, _McCoy thought. He had to give Pavel something to anchor himself with. Counting on the kid's irrepressible enthusiasm for all things physics- and Enterprise-related, he wracked his brain, trying to remember some detail about the latest upgrade to the propulsion system that he and Scotty had been babbling about with Jim during lunch the previous day. McCoy had basically tuned them out, and now he was wishing he'd paid a little more attention.

"What were you saying yesterday, about the propulsion system?" McCoy asked, changing the subject quick enough that Chekov actually glanced at him in surprise.

"Uh – it…why? You had no interest in the new system yesterday."

"Just trying to move things along," he answered honestly. "Tell me about it." Chekov gave him a strange look, but did as he was told. Haltingly at first, Pavel recounted the discussion from yesterday, and it didn't take long for him to warm to the subject. McCoy gritted his teeth and nodded appropriately, no more interested the second time around. McCoy focused enough to ask a couple semi-intelligent questions, and as Pavel talked, McCoy started to ease away from where they'd been standing. Keeping Chekov engaged in conversation, he guided them through the room, through the crowd, and to the door.

* * *

It was late, and McCoy was tired. Sitting back in his chair, he ran his hands over his eyes and through his hair. Time to go. Going over his mental list of immediate tasks for the morning, he piled a few pads that had been scattered over the surface of his desk. As he was finishing closing out his main terminal, a quiet knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. He seriously considered not answering, but almost immediately rolled his eyes at himself. Like he'd ever really do that.

"What?" he called, too tired to worry about tact. He'd expected Jim, but it was Chekov who edged his way into the office.

"Doctor, may I talk to you?" McCoy gestured to the empty chair and leaned back as Chekov sat down. He let his eyes wander around the office, pointedly avoiding McCoy, who simply waited. After a couple of moments, Chekov took a breath and his gaze focused somewhere near McCoy's left shoulder. "I wanted to thank you for your assistance earlier. I – it is sometimes difficult for me." He dropped his gaze. "I should not have gone." McCoy eyed the young man in front of him, considering the situation. Being a genius came with its own set of complications, that was for damn sure.

"Hell, kid. If there was anyone who should stay home because of social ineptitude, it's me. What happened to you tonight is not uncommon – it could happen to anyone. If it's something that starts to be a real problem, we'll have to deal with it. It may fade on its own as you get older." He held up a hand, forestalling the automatic response he knew was coming. "Listen to me for a minute. I'm not saying you're too young. You're old enough to be a bridge officer on this ship, you're old enough for all that entails. You _are_ inexperienced, though, but that's just a function of time, and you can't rush the passing of years and the experiences they bring. It may never be effortless, but it will get easier, and do your best to never let it stop you from going somewhere. Going, even if you don't stay, is the best thing you can do for yourself."

Chekov nodded, eyes down. "How did you know I was…stuck?" he asked. McCoy raised his eyebrows.

"Chekov, you were staring at a picture of a bowl of fruit. If it were almost anything else, I'd've had to place you on medical leave."


End file.
